by Orel Protopopescu

(To the tune of “Am I Blue?”)

Woke up this morning, long before the dawn…
Without a warning, big tax cuts are on
and you know what’s in store…

Why would they do it
when we all knew it
never worked before?

Are you blue? I am too.
Here they go, one more time,
Whoop-de-doo!

There was a time
some sanity prevailed,
but now I’m
so sad they’d try again,
what has failed
more than once…
Who’s the dunce
in this town
who thinks wealth
trickles down?

Ask the folks gone broke in Kansas,
working poor up in Chicago.
They know better than jet-setters
bending ears in Mar-a-Lago.

Are you blue? I am too.
Here they go, one more time,
Whoop-de-doo!

by Chris O’Carroll

They say you lost your husband,
The father of your kid.
I’m calling now to cheer you up.
Obama never did.

At least your dead guy knew
When he went off to war
What kind of fatal outcome he
Had signed himself up for.

I had no way to know
This job would be so tough.
I didn’t know I’d have to know
About health care and stuff,

And now I don’t get praised
For these great calls I make.
The media reports that say
Obama called are fake.

by Ian Graham

Chipocalypse: Kiwis react to news of nationwide potato shortage—NZ Herald

Yes, climate risk is all too real and
Here’s the proof. From lush New Zealand
Comes a tale to pucker lips:
Dire warnings of Chipocalypse.
So, true or fake? The jury’s out.
Though one thing’s sure—without a doubt,
A shortage of potato slivers
Would be enough to send cold shivers
Along the spine of any nation.
But Kiwis seldom need sedation.
As well as thirty million sheep,
New Zealanders are bound to keep,
With zealous zen
And ne’er a frown,
Their chins up when
The chips are down.

by Mae Scanlan

First it was Harvey the Hurricane;
Harvey the Weinstein came next.
Who’s going to be the next Harvey
To render us vexed and perplexed?

by Michael R. Burch

So unlike the brazen giant of Greek fame
With conquering limbs astride from land to land,
Showering gold, a spread-eagled strumpet stands:
A much-used trollop with a torch, whose flame
Has long since been extinguished. And her name?
“Mother of Cowards!” From her enervate hand
Soft ash descends. Her furtive eyes demand
allegiance to her pimp’s repulsive game.

“Keep, ancient lands, your wretched poor!” cries she
With scarlet lips. “Give me your hale, your whole,
Your huddled tycoons, yearning to be pleased!
The wretched refuse of your toilet hole?
Oh, never send one unwashed child to me!
I await Trump’s pleasure by the gilded bowl!”

by Ian Graham

Rocket Man and Dotard
Seek, to settle spat,
Korea diplomat.

by Cody Walker

ESPN
is bein’
uncool with Jemele Hill.
Did she kill
58 concert-goers? Or belittle Bob Corker?
Was she accused of rape in The New Yorker?